


Firsts

by Ismene_Jane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack and Angst, Kinda AU, M/M, No actual sex, Ridiculousness abounds, Shmoop, Talk of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane/pseuds/Ismene_Jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets into the Impala to find that Sam has fucked with the radio, again. This time it has interesting consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firsts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pegasus_Eridana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/gifts).



> This fic is pure ridiculousness. It was inspired by the song “Royals” by Lorde, and I just had to write it. Season 7 spoilers, I guess. But this is kinda AU in that Cas isn’t crazy and the end of season 7 is disregarded because I hadn’t seen it yet. Very little mention of Leviathan. This is Crack!fic, y’all.
> 
> I forgot to do a disclaimer, cause I'm a dumbass. But I own none of this stuff. Not the song, not the show, nothin'. 
> 
> Special thanks to Pegsus_Eridana and Lennanightrunner for the betas. 
> 
> ALSO. This is the first fic I've written in many a year. So, ya know, be nice. Maybe.

Dean Winchester does not, repeat, does NOT listen to top 40 radio. Ever. 

EVER. 

He likes his classic rock like his bourbon, straight up with no twist or any other pansy crap, thank you very much. Straying too far in time musically in either direction of the 70’s makes him uncomfortable. Rolling Stones? Depends on the year. The Beatles? Maybe. But some of their stuff is pretty, and that just won’t do. Dean doesn’t do “pretty,” unless it’s in the form of a woman in lingerie and heels, or, recently, a certain semi-fallen angel who makes him semi-hard just by existing.

But that’s another story.

The point, jackass, is that Dean Winchester does not listen to top 40 radio. 

Unfortunately for him, Sam Winchester is not so discerning. Because he’s a bitch. And bitches just don’t understand that there is good music, and there is bad music. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. 

…Unless Dean’s riding shotgun, then it’s the other way around.

But sometimes, Sammy takes his baby for a ride somewhere by himself when they’re working a case or when Dean needs some more food (pie). And if he could program her to not play anything but his music, he would. It’s not her fault his brother likes to violate her beautiful stereos with this crap. He knows she doesn’t mean it.  
That doesn’t stop him from screaming very loudly in her when he climbs into his baby to get some more hunter’s milk and there’s some dumb-wad music blaring back at him. 

Like, now.

“How many times, SAMMY?! How many times I gotta tell you?! If you’re gonna play this bullshit, you HAVE TO CHANGE THE CHANNEL BACK? GODDAMN SONOFABITCH!” 

He considers turning the car off and going back into the motel to chew Sammy a brand new asshole. The boy has to learn, dammit! And he’s about to, really, when the music streaming from the radio actually reaches his ears. It’s just a drum and hands clapping.

He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other about to turn the key in the ignition to end this madness, when she starts singing. And he can’t move. 

She’s got a voice like a female Cas from New Zealand. All rough and nice at the same time. Hell, he can’t quite understand what she’s singing, but he thinks he can just make out the lyrics.

"I’ve never seen a diamond in the flesh  
I cut my teeth on wedding rings in the movies  
And I’m not proud of my address  
In the torn up town, no post code envy"

It’s like, she’s singing right to him. I mean, he’s seen diamonds. Of course he has, he’s a hunter. Old cursed pretty shit is just part of the job description, but he’s never owned one. And he’s never really had an address. Yeah, Bobby’s was kind of home, and then it got blown up. So yeah, no post code to envy, really. 

His right hand relaxes on the ignition, puts his foot on the gas, then the clutch, moves to put the car in gear and then he’s off, coasting, and listening.

"…blood stains, ball gowns, trashin the hotel room  
We don’t care, we’re driving Cadillacs in our dreams."

Dean rubs his baby self-consciously. “Not me, baby. You’re the only girl for me.” Can’t have his lady getting jealous. 

"…tigers on a gold leash  
We don’t care, we aren’t caught up in your love affair"

Damn straight! All those tabloids, he doesn’t understand how people care so much about the rich and famous. Dumbasses. So caught up in these idols’ lives and love lives that they haven’t noticed the damn apocalypses he and his little family of ruffians have been defeating for YEARS. 

She’s onto something. The music shifts and he gets back to listening.

"And we’ll never be royals  
It don’t run in our blood.  
That kinda lux just ain’t for us, we crave a different kind of buzz"

He’s addicted now, that beat so infectious it makes him want to move his hips to the music in his seat, dance with his baby. But there are lines. And Dean Winchester does not, DOES NOT, dance with his hips. He ain’t a Chippendale dancer. But if his shoulders start moving on their own, who could blame him for it? No one can see him but his baby, and she likes it when he’s happy.

He closes his eyes, just for a second. He’s bobbing his head to the music now, and he feels the beat and her voice up his spine. God, that voice. Makes him think of a lower voice, words being mumbled in his ear. Some he’s heard, some he just wants to hear. Things he’s wanted for a long time, but hasn’t been able to talk about yet. 

See, Dean Winchester does not, as a rule, sleep with guys.

…much.

So, okay, there was that time when he was twenty-one and on a vamp hunt by himself, Dad off in another part of the world, chasing some other monster, Sam still in school, and he met that sheriff who ended up helping Dean find the nest. 

And then helping Dean find his prostate. 

And yeah, Dean’s not a girl, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t moan for it. I mean, when something feels good, it feels good, and who could fault him for that? He’s not GAY, or anything, he just… kinda… likes getting it up the ass sometimes. 

Yeah, shut up.

But Dean has never been in love with a man. Hell, he hasn’t really ever been in love with a woman, either. Except Lisa. But who’s to say whether he was in love with her or in love with the idea of her and her boy, having a family when all his family was dead and Castiel wouldn’t answer his prayers.

Not once, in over a year. 

And Christ, had that hurt. I mean, a lot of his praying was intensely whispered obscenities at the sky, when he couldn’t sleep because the betrayal had worked its way up into his heart and set up shop. It choked him sometimes. He couldn’t breathe through the pain and anger coursing through his veins, stopping his heart and crushing his windpipe.  
It’s not as if he hadn’t been betrayed before by someone he, like, cared about, or whatever. But that was Sammy, that was his blood. His kid brother, whose betrayal was as much on Dean for dying as it was on Sam for being a friggin’ idgit. He knows the kind of pain caused by losing a brother, knows what lengths he would have gone to avenge Sammy’s death if he couldn’t bring him back.

But Cas. Cas. 

Cas who he had let in. Who he had picked to be a part of his family, a part of him and all that sappy crap. And Cas had lied to him. To his face. And let loose the Leviathans. Cas, who had broken something inside of him, something he hadn’t known was there. 

So yeah, Lisa had given him shelter when he needed it. And he had loved her, in his way. But he was always on guard, always waiting for the ruin. And with Cas, it’s just… different. This feeling crawling under his skin, through his veins, it’s something totally new.

He’s rolling his hips now, and so what? It’s a time for new things. He’s still pounding his fist on the steering wheel, like always, but it’s gentler than normal. Respectful of the song. And when the chorus rolls around again he finds himself humming the lyrics, then singing.

"Let me live that fantasy"

Aw hell yeah. He’s gonna change it back, put in an ACDC tape, soon as the song’s over. But this is too good, too needed. And Dean’s all for giving into impulses, ask anyone. Ask Sammy. He has rules in order to break them, lines meaning to be crossed. And no one need ever know about his obsession with this chick-song. It’s rough like sex and he’s all for living fantasies.

He’s trying to keep his eyes and mind on the road, but they keep drifting to Cas. To being held down by that angel strength, to feel the burn of his mind, the pain of him inside Dean. Anyway he can, anyway Cas wants. He just wants to be able to let go for once, to give in. 

Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone --he can take care of himself, alright? Apocalypse or no, crazy brother or no. Got it?-- but sometimes, just sometimes, he’d like to give up that control. Put it in the hands of someone he can trust, someone who can handle that pain.

Cas. 

And fuck yeah, random girl on the radio, he wants to live that fantasy. Wants to feel Cas opening him up, feel his hands, his mouth, his protection where Dean needs it most. She knows it wouldn't make him a wuss, a little bitch, or anything like that. Knowing what he needs and not being too much of a pansy to get it? Yeah, no, that’s what makes him a man.

She gets it. He’s singing the chorus with her now.  
He’ll never be a royal, but he craves that different kind of buzz. And shit, he’s saved the world, right? At least a coupla times. He deserves to live this fantasy. 

“Dean.”

He freezes. Hips mid sway on the seat, one arm in the air where’s he’s lifted it during the chord stacking of I’ll rule, the other solid on the steering wheel, his dick swelled up in his pants, thinking about the very voice coming at him from the passenger seat. 

He turns toward it. Dean is not a coward. That’s a rule he doesn't break. He looks Castiel, angel of the Lord in the eye and says,

“Uh… yeah. I… I got nothin’.” Well, shit.

Castiel smirks, actually SMIRKS at Dean. The nerve of that guy. “It seems you have found some new music. Have you also developed a distaste for pie?”

Dean puts on his best glare and turns his eyes back to the road. “Just shut your cakehole, Cas, and push in my ACDC tape, wouldja?” He won’t look at Cas right now. Too embarrassing. It’s just so annoying that he can appear out of nowhere and find Dean appreciating some new music while thinking about screwing his guardian angel.

Hell. He may not ever be a royal, but he is royally fucked. 

Cas doesn't say anything, just does as he’s told. But Dean can feel his smugness radiating.

“You tell Sammy about this, and I’ll put that angel sword of yours through your throat. You hear me?” He demands in his best gruff voice.

There’s silence from Cas, but Dean can hear the goddamned twinkle in his eye over the first strains of “Highway to Hell”.

“Stop it, wouldja?! It was on the radio when I got in the car, alright? I’m allowed.” And he is. He’s Dean friggin’ Winchester. He can do what he wants. 

“I will not tell your brother about your new love for contemporary music, Dean. But I would like to know of this fantasy you want to live.” Castiel’s voice is warm. Teasing. And it has a note of heat in it that Dean hasn’t ever heard before. It prickles up his spine, and he can’t look Cas in the eyes. He tenses up and fights the urge to swerve the car into a tree.

“You reading my mind, Cas? That’s not cool, man.” He tries for nonchalant, but it comes out squeaky, and Winchester men do not squeak. He feels like a coward for not looking at Cas, not meeting those blue eyes that make him squirm even when his brother’s around, and that’s that one rule. So he turns his head.

When he meets Castiel’s eyes, he feels like they are boring into him. It’s a look he’s used to, the feeling of being seen through by Cas, of being known; but there’s a darkness there, a commanding presence that he’s never seen before. He feels like Cas knows just what he wants, and isn't that just friggin’ peachy?

“I’m not a man, and I’m certainly not ‘cool,’” Cas replies. “And I have infinite patience. You tell me when you are ready for the… consequences.” Consequences. Oh sweet Mary mother of God. That word, in that voice, tells Dean that Cas knows. He knows, the fucker. And now it’s up to Dean to step the hell up.

Castiel lifts an eyebrow, and where did he pick THAT up, Dean wonders, while he struggles for control of his facial muscles, which are currently attempting to shift into a crazy grin.

And Dean Winchester does not grin out of sheer happiness. But, then again, he doesn't listen to top 40 radio, and he doesn't dance with his hips, and he doesn't sleep with men, and he doesn't really fall in love. Ever. Got it?

Except, he guesses he does. 

Dean turns his eyes back on the road and smiles wide, this time because he has to, not because he’s convincing himself to be happy. He is happy. And he is NOT a coward. So he turns the car around, back to the motel where Sammy’ll be confused when he walks in with Cas, chucks the keys at Sammy’s lap and tells him to get the liquor and get lost for a few hours. And to bring home some food and pie for later, when he’s fucked out. The motel room where he’ll tell Cas with and without words just what he wants. 

It’s a day of firsts, and Dean Winchester is nothing if not adventurous. He smiles at Cas, who nods imperiously, just like Cas, but with a look on his face that Dean hasn't ever seen before. Excitement. It’s more human than Cas has looked in awhile. And damn, if that’s not enough to get Dean excited too. He feels his skin start to tingle in all the places he wants Cas to touch, to own, and focuses on driving. 

And if he admits, just to himself, that Sammy sometimes does a good thing by ignoring all his big brother’s rules, well, who’s to know? Dean’s still gonna be in charge, he’s gonna rule, gonna live that fantasy.

You can call him Queen Bee.


End file.
